


Chasing the Storm

by illyn_fairecroft



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyn_fairecroft/pseuds/illyn_fairecroft
Summary: It is the end of the civil war and the end of all dragons. Peace, or at least something resembling the idea, has returned to the land. The Stormcloaks have rule over Skyrim after their victory in Solitude and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak is destined to become High King, with Galmar Stone-Fist still at his side.The Dovahkiin, tired of the hardships of battle and endless travel, has retired to live a simple life on Sarethi Farm in The Rift. She hasn't had anything to do with the Stormcloaks in months. All seemed to be going to plan, with the exception of Ulfric's constant bombardment of letters - which seem to be getting worse...





	1. Destined for Riften

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reader-insert fic, where you substitute "_____" for you or your characters name. The description of the main character (in terms of appearance) is deliberately left vague, and doesn't go beyond "female nord".
> 
> I will update this with the proper ratings and warnings. In it's current WIP state, the rating is Mature. This could change to Explicit in the future.  
> This story has a somewhat slow build. For reference, interactions with Ulfric *should* begin around chapter 5 or 6!
> 
> I would love some feedback or constructive criticism!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dovahkiin was tending her plants when yet another letter arrived, changing the pace of her day.
> 
> Aduri also becomes upset after Avrusa delivers some news.

This was the thirteenth. The _thirteenth_.

 

He surely knew how to charm a lady, with the sweet, poetic threats and demands that came with yet another one of his letters.  Y/N    always knew when it was Ulfric’s letters, too. It was the same courier, some 14 year old Breton boy, and the same blue wax seal on the envelope - similar in colour to the stormcloak cuirass and with the distinct mark of the Windhelm bear debossed in it’s shiny surface.

“Thank you, boy. A coin for your troubles, too” She said, tipping the poor man, his boots worn to leather scraps from miles and miles of walking. With a nod and a smile, he was on his way back into the sunrise.

_____ stuffed the letter into her leather hip bag, not worried about preserving it’s perfect presentation, and continued clipping the plants before her. It had been months since the tentative end of the civil war, yet still he sent letters. She was finished with politics, with fighting, with responsibility. She wanted nothing to do with the man.  
The Sarethi sisters very kindly offered her a place on their farm in The Rift after she left Solitude; a retirement of sorts. They pay small amounts of coin (as well as bed and board) for any work she does. Avrusa seemed happy to get the extra help, since she can care for her nirnroot while _____ cares for the other crops, along with absent-minded Aduri.

 

“Another one?” Aduri asked, pausing and resting her elbow on the top of her hoe.

“Of course” _____ replied “Seems to be the only delivery I get these days...”

“Why don’t you just go and see him? At least he might stop pestering you. I could come with you?” Aduri said, her voice filled half with hope and half with amusement.

The Nord laughed and gave her a knowing look. It was clear that every day Aduri spent at the farm was a day closer to madness.

“I doubt it. That I’d go back, that is. It was hard enough at the time and I expect it would be even harder now time has passed.”

“Well, just keep it in mind, you know. Time away from here would hardly do you any harm…”

She smiled again at her friend's persistence. Perhaps it would make a nice change to visit a city with her, but definitely not Windhelm.

The sun continued its steady climb into the First Seed sky, casting great shadows onto the farm from the surrounding trees. The bite in the air was still enough to numb fingers, meaning gloves and cowls were still very much in use. The day had only just begun, yet _____ was already thinking of roaring fires and warmed mead.

 

“Girls!” Avrusa called from the nirnroot beds “Girls, come over here!”

After exchanging panicked glances, they both laid down their tools and walked to Avrusa.

“I just had a thought.” she started “I checked our supply of mead and meats yesterday evening and we’re just about out. It’s little over a month before we could get a delivery, so…. _one_ of you will have to visit Riften.”

It was clear in her tone that she only intended on sending the Dragonborn. Aduri laughed, a false laugh, and walked off towards the forest with small, quick steps.

“I didn’t think I was being _that_ blunt” Avrusa muttered. “Regardless, I need you to go to Riften. Pick up some drinks, some meat and maybe sell some of my potions while you’re there?”

“Oh, couldn’t you let her accompany me? She clearly desires it a lot more than I.” _____ said, hinting at her own reluctance. She had too many old “friends” to bump into in Riften.

“No, absolutely not.” the Dunmer snapped. “I need her help on the farm and I don’t trust her to stay out of trouble. You’ll leave tomorrow morning before the sun’s rise ” With that and a sharp sigh, she turned her attention to the weeds at her feet, her back to _____.

 

The woman wandered back to her own potato plants, digging the crumpled letter out of her bag thinking she might as well read this one (unlike the last two).

_“Stormblade _____,_

 

 _In light of recent events, regarding the aftermath of the civil war and the reinstatement of free Talos worship, myself -_ _and Officer Galmar_ _\- formally summon you to the Palace of the Kings to discuss political matters, as is your duty as Stormblade. Failure to attend will result in serious consequences and the reconsideration of your suitability for the title._

 _  
_ _There’s no more time for lollygagging, _____. You have two days._

_Come to Windhelm._

_  
_ _Jl. Ulfric Stormcloak.”_

She couldn’t help but scoff at the tone of this piece. The petty threats, the aggression, the “and Galmar”. Was that supposed to be intimidating? What was Galmar supposed to do, besides grope her body and drool over her bosom as he always did, the dirty old fucker. A grimace… or maybe a reluctant grin, contorted her face at the thought of it, and she quickly moved her attention elsewhere.

She ripped the letter in two and put it back where it came from to dispose of later. With that, she continued her duties for the day.

 

As the sun began to hang low in the sky, the Nord’s thoughts turned back to warm mead once again. She stored her tools away and swiftly relocated inside.

Aduri hadn't worked all day after the morning's incident and was now attempting to avoid further confrontation, with her slender nose pressed firmly into a book.

_____ looked to Avrusa, nodding once, and raise of two different sets of eyebrows caused a ripple of stifled laughter spread across half of the room, much to Aduri’s disgust. After fully satiating her appetite for food and drink, she climbed into bed, anxiety sizzling in the pit of her stomach like a red hot coal, anticipating the tasks for the next day. Thoughts of Riften - and especially of Brynjolf - whirled around in her head as she slipped into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this first chapter is a little bit... pointless? Also kinda short haha. It doesn't really meet my standards and doesn't add much to the plot (or intended plot, this is still a WIP!) but without it, it made parts of later chapters confusing - so I had to keep it in for context.  
> I tried to write Avrusa and Aduri as close to their characters as I could get, but it was surprisingly difficult with so little to go off!


	2. Riften Azure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the journey to Riften being a smooth and pleasant one, the Dragonborn was eager to meet with Bersi in the Pawned Prawn and avoid the market at all costs. Although, not everything goes to plan.

The sound of flint scraping against steel woke the young woman. One of the sisters was trying to relight the fire that must have gone out in the night. _____ didn't care to raise her heavy eyelids to see who. That was until, a cool hand was placed on her exposed knee.

“Rise and shine. You're heading to Riften as soon as those feet touch the ground, and there's no getting out of it.” Avrusa’s voice droned into her ears. With a groan, she heaved herself out of bed, sickened by the fact the sun had yet to even _begin_ to rise. Or perhaps that was the lack of food.

The Dunmer handed her some bread and the last of the ale, and walked her outside.

“Remember, buy drink, buy meat and sell potions. Oh, and _stay out of trouble.”_ Avrusa smiled, a rare sight, and said her goodbyes.

 

______ looked to her steed down the path leading away from Sarethi Farm. Reliable old Queen Alfsigr. Noting the filled panniers on the ground her boss must have prepared, she pulled her pack basket over her shoulders, ready to carry as many bottles of ale as her spine could take.

Throwing the panniers on and mounting Allie, she set off south east for Riften. The cobbled path was lined either side with tall, budding trees, still dusted with the last of the glittering night time frost. Dew drops clung to swaying grass like dancing pixies, catching the early sun to sparkle vivid pink and orange light through the shallow morning mist. Allie’s hooves clapped against the stones beneath, occasionally sending flocks of birds into fluttering frenzies. Rabbits and foxes ran wild amongst the bushes. It was easy to get lost in the magical serenity of an early spring morning.

 

Hours flew by like minutes and by the time the Dovahkiin reached Riften, the sun had risen well into the sky. She dismounted and the friendly stable keeper helped her unload the potions into her pack basket.

The guards tried, in their usual fashion, to fool gullible visitors into paying their “visitors tax”, to which _____ simply called them out on their antics and walked past.

Entering Riften, the smell of the river greeted her. It was a smell that brought with it both familiarity and unease. Without so much as a thought, the nord pulled her cowl forward and tapped her thigh to check on the holstered glass dagger, as if just stepping into Riften was enough to have it stolen.

She had her destination in mind and began walking, with purpose and determination.

 

“Genuine Falmer blood elixir!” an all too familiar voice echoed through the streets as she slipped behind The Bee and Barb, silently praying to all the Gods she could think of that nobody would draw attention to her presence. She only had to get to the merchants for now, she could worry about the market later. The wooden door of the Pawned Prawn gave a loud squeak as _____ entered, making eye contact with Bersi. His face lit up and he ran round from behind his little wooden desk to grab the Dovahkiin by the shoulders. She returned the gesture.

“My good old friend!” Bersi sang, a twinkle in his eye at the memory of dragon bones and flawless rubies being dumped in front of him “How long has it been? It's good to see you.” He released his iron grip with a smile and patted her shoulder.

“Bersi Honey-Hand, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in months! I'm afraid I’ve not anything to impress you with today, though”

With that, Bersi grumbled something about “3 onyx circlets” and turned back to his desk. “Well, what can I help you with?”

“Oh don't be so rude, Bersi” his wife called from the next room, meaning a cheeky smile crawled onto his face. Bersi was a charitable, trustworthy man - but that didn't stop him from being very blunt about his thoughts and intentions. Especially considering his somewhat questionable past with the nord. His broken finger never did quite heal properly.

“Potions. From the farm. I have a whole heaving pack of them, though they're mostly potions of damage. Could you offer me a good deal?”

The girl opened her pack and started stacking the bottles onto Bersi’s desk one by one. He started by counting them but seemed to give up after 30 or so.

“Look, you see, these would be of more use to crusty old Elgrim than to me. I have every intention of selling these on, so how about we call it 500 and leave it there?”

“I knew you wouldn't fail to deliver. Only if you're sure?”

“Absolutely.”

 

Some merry chit-chat and one heavier coin purse later, ______ left the shop, stepping out into the unwelcoming weather and froze, dead.

Brynjolf was standing not 6 feet away from her down the alley. His back was turned, talking to a figure she couldn’t make out. If she tried to slip away, he might hear her. If she tried to wait for him to leave, he might see her.

Panicking, she pulled her cowl forward once more and hurried back into the merchant's shop, not sure if Brynjolf had noticed.

Bersi gave her a confused look, followed by one of concern when the fear on her face became apparent.

“Gods above, what just happened? You look like you just saw Draugr roaming the streets!?”

“Brynjolf was there. He can't see me. Not… Not right now at least.”

“Ah… You should likely know he's on his way to pick up a delivery… here.”

She yelped, surprised, as the door behind her began to creak open. Acting on reflex, she ran and crouched behind the desk next to the Breton's feet.

 

“Morning” that well-known voice called across the room, setting unease into the nord’s stomach like icy daggers. Brynjolf swaggered into the shop, clad in a deep azure coat that swung around his knees. Most of his fingers were covered in gold and silver rings, and the collar of his shirt was left somewhat loose, so as to advertise the chain of an expensive necklace.

“Here for my bottles, naturally.” he said, with a smile to be detected from his smooth, confident tone. "Quickly, if you'd be so kind. A man has business to attend to."

“O-of course…” the merchant's own nerves were creeping up on him. Damn honest Bersi. “I'll get them for you. You know, it's only a matter of time before people realise your “Falmer blood” is just wine and moonsugar…”

The fiery-haired man's hearty laughter bellowed throughout the room. Bersi turned to pick up the crate behind him, only to stumble and trip over the girl, falling to his knees.

“Bersi!” The thief hurried to help him up.

 

_____ looked up. They locked eyes.

The silence was heavy. Nobody moved a muscle while the world around them spun. His eyes were as piercing green as ever, boring into her so hard she wondered if they could see right through her. After what felt like minutes,

“Well well well…” he spat out, using a tone as hard as iron “Didn't think I'd _ever_ see another fair faced maiden around these parts. Trying to avoid me, hmm?”

 

Stiff with panic - with sickening, sickening panic - the nord on the floor did and said nothing. Brynjolf and her had history. It had been well over a year since she left the Thieves Guild. Well over a year since their affair came to a sudden bitter end. Many a cold night had been spent warming each other, hidden away in dark brush or buried in stable hay. Back then, at least.   
The Guild had interfered with her progression with the Stormcloaks. Even if she was good at it, sneaking into people's homes never did quite feel right as a soldier, and it seemed like Galmar was becoming suspicious of her sudden night time disappearances. Brynjolf had walked out, stony-faced and silent after she announced her decision on that day. They hadn’t spoken since.  
Right now, all she wanted was for the floor to swallow her up, to pull her into darkness. Away from Riften and especially away from Brynjolf.

 

Instead, she continued to crouch on the floor, staring blankly at the man above her.


	3. Glass Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running into Brynjolf alone was enough to throw her off guard. Nothing could have prepared her for what was to be said and done that same evening.

“Come on, what are you even playing at, woman?” The frustration in his tone only made her heart beat faster.

Brynjolf grabbed her by the upper arm with a grip of steel and pulled her away from Bersi (who was left dumbfounded on the floor), away from the Pawned Prawn and away from the market - ignoring her protests all the while. He released her, but cornered her against the railings above the canal.

“What are you doing back here? Got a right pair of bollocks to show your face to the Guild after… after all that.” He couldn’t bring himself to mention it.

“Business. For the Sarethi sisters. I’m not seeking involvement with the Guild, I’m seeking some damn ale and salted meats, Brynjolf.” Her patience was wearing thin, again absentmindedly patting her thigh to check her weapon. That harsh, emerald-eyed stare seemed to soften at that - just ever so slightly.

“What, you going to stab me?” He said with a smirk “I want answers, _____, not a fight.”

“I was hardly threatening you, Sir. I don’t want to have to say it again, I’m not looking to get involved with the Guild.”

“You got involved with the Guild the second you walked your sweet little arse back into Riften, lass, so I’ll make this nice and clear - I want answers, and I always get what I want.”

His arrogance left her silenced, unsure if she should attempt a verbal protest or merely meet his cheek with her palm.

“I’ll see you tonight, at the Bee and Barb.” With that, he turned and walked away.

 

“Gods above…” She muttered after regaining her composure. _____ rearranged her pack and disheveled cowl and wandered back up to the market to continue her day. His words streamed through her head, over and over, for hours - even driving her to consider alternative accommodation for the night… Which would be unlikely. Haelga doesn’t just let anyone sleep in her bunkhouse and there isn’t another inn for miles.  
He knew that.  
He knew the Bee and Barb was the only place she could go, and that travelling alone at night as a women, even mounted, was out of the question without proper armor and weaponry.

As darkness fell over Riften like a heavy blanket, her heart began to race once more. She had put it off long enough, tried to stall by visiting the orphanage and talking to Maramal at the temple, but it was no use.

The door to the inn swung open, making the Nord jump as a drunken man pulled it violently from the other side. He stumbled past, not seeming to even notice the woman beside him as she slipped in. The warmth hit her, in contrast to the cold night, and the smell of home cooked food was more than enough to put her at ease. The Argonian barmaid nodded and smiled from across the room, acknowledging her amongst the sea of people while wiping down flagons. Her partner was too busy fussing over all the other customers to notice a new one.

With a quick scan of the room, Brynjolf was nowhere to be seen. _____ wasn’t sure if this was reassuring or even more worrying.

“Good evening.” She said in almost a whisper, fearful that the red-headed thief might hear her and materialise from thin air “I’d like to rent a room and store my pack with you... I don’t think a bowl of beef stew would go amiss either.”

“Of course!” Keerava chimed, her eyes virtually morphing into Septims, and scuttled off to fetch her the food. The girl turned and searched the room once more and still, he was nowhere to be seen. Nobody seemed to be acting suspiciously. Nobody was staring at her. Nobody was wholly avoiding her gaze. She wondered if he simply said it to intimidate her; possibly to keep her on edge for something he planned tomorrow...

Keerava woke her out of her daydream, handing her the stew. It's rich, savory taste warmed her deep down to her bones and beyond, before she followed the barmaid to her room for the night.

 

They stopped outside.

"I'll leave you here.... If, if that's everything for now?" There was a strangely suspicious note to her voice - one of fear and uncertainty. The Nord wasn't one to leave that undetected, either. It was strange that she seemed so apprehensive and even stranger that she refused the enter the room as she usually would. _____ didn’t move or speak, but held eye contact. Keerava shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again, unsure how to react.

“I’m sorry! He payed me so well!” She exploded, and firmly shoved the woman’s chest, causing her to fall backwards into the room. An arm appeared around her waist, and a hand at her mouth.

“Don’t scream” he whispered into her ear as the Argonian hurriedly shut the door, barring it from the other side.

He wrestled her across the room and threw her down onto the bed with a heavy thunk - being sure to seat himself on a chair between her and the exit, his legs spread wide, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.

“I told you, I always get what I want.” He hissed.

She laid there in shock.

“I couldn’t risk you trying to scarper the second you saw my face, now could I? And you’d do better than to waltz in past my boys at the front gate. Thought you might have learned by now, but I suppose it has been a long time…” He continued, cold and judgemental in his delivery. There was no sign of faltering, no sign of letting down his guard. “Answers. I’m here for answers.” 

The girl sat up, and gave him a long, hard look.

“You knew I was here from the second I approached the city, didn’t you.” She said, her voice barely more than a breath.

He smirked, briefly, and ran a hand through his rusty orange hair without breaking eye contact.

“Clearly, I've not been put in a position to say no at this point…” She sighed, her thoughts briefly flickering to her weapon, but just as quickly back again when she considered what a skilled fighter Brynjolf was. Not to mention the lack of escape.

He leaned forward, further. “Why did you leave?”

“You kn-”

“Why did you leave for fucking Ulfric Stormcloak and his stupid, fucking rebellion?!” He boomed, bolting up out of his seat, his face reddening at the mention of that name. Silence hit the room and, evidently, the tavern below them also. He slowly sank back down again. His hands balled themselves into fists and soft fits of shivers set themselves into his bulky body.

“I left because I had to pursue… I had to pursue what I cared about most… At the time.”

 

That honestly hit the man like a boulder three times his size. His eyes flicked away from hers for a fleeting moment, less than a second, but long enough to see a pained expression ripple through the rest of his face.

“So what, it was all for nothing? You didn’t care about me- about the Guild?” He corrected himself.

“I did. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. You must understand that.”

He overtly looked away.

“Officer Galmar was suspicious." She followed on "If I had continued, he would have found out. You can’t be fighting for Skyrim and it's citizens while you rob the very people you’re fighting for...”

“Why couldn’t you have chosen the Guild then?”

“I-” She paused.  
  
“You what, _____? You what?” His voice raised once again “You going to make more excuses?”

“You knew how I felt about him, Brynjolf!” She howled back  “I was too foolish to see that it wasn’t my place to, but I did!”

He was silent once more.  
The chatter from the room below filtered up through the floorboards, filling the empty space with a mellow drone. The flicker of a single candle sent shadows dancing around the walls. A cool air rolled in through the cracks of the window, and the moonlight illuminating their faces glowed gently - not unlike how it did in that dark brush or that stable hay. 

She shuffled along the bed, just a few inches, and pulled the dagger out from under her skirts and handed it to him, their hands hot against each other for just a split second.

Brynjolf looked down and his eyes widened.

“This... “

“This was your old glass dagger. The Guild sigil you carved is still on the pommel. I never quite found the heart to get rid of it… ”

“I saw you break it though. Smashed it clean into the wall and bent the blade.”

“Different one.”

They both sat, staring at the dagger in his hand in a much more comfortable stillness.

 

“Did you ever truly feel for me in the way that you felt for Ulfric?”

“I did...” She drifted off, a thousand thoughts and memories rushing through her head at once “At a time. Did you?”

“I don’t know if I can answer that…

Never felt much at all for the Stormcloak bastard, if I’m honest.”

She laughed and looked up to him. “I’m sure the Guild is doing just fine with you at the helm. You haven't changed, Brynjolf.”

“The same could be said for you.”

He placed the dagger back into her hand, deliberately lingering for a good few seconds too long, their eyes meeting once more as an understanding settled between them. He got up and knocked on the door in a rhythmic pattern. The sound of wood scraping against wood vibrated through the room while Keerava removed the barrier that sealed them inside. The door opened as he looked back.

“We’ll always be ready to have you back, ____. **_I’ll_ ** always be ready to have you back.”

 

Without leaving time for a response, he pushed past the Argonian and disappeared into the shadows. Keerava looked to the girl with a face filled with guilt, her eyes watering as if she was ready to cry. She hurried into the room and threw a small purse of gold down on the bed.

“Free of charge.” She whimpered, and followed Brynjolf's figure down the stairs.

The Dovahkiin laid down on the bed, only now noticing the raging headache that had been building inside her skull. 

 _“A little bit of Falmer Blood Elixir would fix me right up”_ She thought, chuckling to herself.

With a belly full of stew and with her thoughts turning back to the farm - content with her exchanges with Brynjolf - she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (spoilers if you haven't read the chapter!)  
> \- I'm not sure if it's really that clear in the piece (and I don't clarify elsewhere) but the idea was that the dagger was given to the Dovahkiin from Brynjolf as a gift long before she left the guild. She smashed the duplicate dagger (i.e. just another generic glass dagger) after she announced that she was leaving, to symbolise the end of their relationship or smth. However, she kept the real one bc she still cared about good ol' Brynnie.  
> So the fact that she kept it showed to him that she still cares, on some level. He got the answer he was looking for and could now accept that she has moved on.  
> Not that I expected anyone to figure out ALL of that, but I hope at least the last part came through in the text!
> 
> \- I hope I did Brynjolf's character justice!
> 
> \- Keerava says stuff in game like "If you've got the coin, you're welcome here. Otherwise, hit the road." and that she only believes in the "good ol' Septim" so I interpret her to be very money-orientated.
> 
> \- Lastly, I'm British and since Brynjolf has a Scottish accent, I thought some UK slang would suit him. Scarper means "to run away" and obvs bollocks is balls.


	4. The Old Man has Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain old friend makes himself known to the Dragonborn in a slightly... unorthodox manner. The journey away from Riften looks to be a long one.
> 
> (Warning for vaguely non-con elements. I would describe it as unsolicited touching with sexual intentions).

As the birds began tweeting and the fresh morning air slipped into the room, the young nord woman was woken by an almighty bang.

Someone must have slammed the main door downstairs. She thought little of it beyond annoyance and shifted under the furs that covered her, ready to go back to sleep.

“What- What are you doing, Sir?” Talen-Jei’s distant voice called to whoever it was that entered, only vaguely registering with _____. “No, you can’t go up there! Sir!”

Suddenly, the door to her room was kicked open, smashing against the wall and causing her to sit bolt upright in bed. Strong, burly arms grabbed her by the waist and hauled her over a firm, fur-clad shoulder with ease.

“What?! Who is-?!” Her sleep induced stupor made it hard to process exactly what was happening as she grasped at the man's armor, but the second that firm hand made sharp contact with her buttock, she knew exactly who it was.

“Sir! Put our guest down! GUARDS!” Talen-Jei cried, desperately. He clawed meekly at _____’s skirts in an attempt to pull her down, but his efforts were fruitless.

“Ha! Didn’t think I'd ever get my old hands on your tender body again!” Galmar roared with laughter “He said two days, and he meant two days, girl. When his men at Fort Amol didn’t report any sign of you, he knew you ignored him!” He laughed again, side-stepping and twirling around around the frantic Talen-Jei, clearly enjoying the entire experience.

 

_____ and him got on well together back when the war was still wreaking havoc throughout the land. They worked side by side in military tactics; as well as on the battlefield. They were ever ready to jest with each other and throw insults for the mindless banter. Their relationship had _always_ been one of both business and friendship. It had, though, never moved anywhere near a bedchamber.  
This in mind - while Galmar _was_ a great leader and he did care about his soldiers, he was still a man. A Nord, at that. Never one to turn down an opportunity to get his hands on a sweet ‘Daughter of Skyrim’, as she so readily remembered. The man was frequently keen to wind up his younger, smaller colleague, using his evident size and strength to his advantage.

 

“Galmar, you awful brute! What do you think you're doing?!” She cried, attempting to wriggle away from his meaty arms.

“Don’t waste your time, _____. Ulfric has waited long enough, and I’ll be damned to sovngarde and back if I can’t get you to him.”

He pushed through the argonians and joked with the guards as he passed, the lady atop his shoulder catching a glimpse of Talen-Jei and Keerava’s mortified faces. Brynjolf came to mind, but he was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere at all, in fact. Could he have been involved? No, of course not…

“Whatever happened to “wherever you damn well please to go” then, Galmar? You sure as hell bid me sweet goodbye after Solitude.”

“I sure as hell did - and I didn’t change my mind. Ulfric, however, did.”

“Thirteen letters, he sent me. Each one got more and more ridiculous.”

“Well, if you listened after 3 maybe it wouldn’t have turned out like this, then, eh?” He chuckled again and jiggled her body, just to rub salt into the wounds.

 

She found herself exiting the city and tossed into a horse-drawn cart. Galmar commanded the driver to head to Windhelm as he slammed the little wooden gate closed. He stomped across the small space, his hulking frame towering over hers, and sat next to her.

His face was just as she remembered. Almost grey in complexion and filled with the wrinkles and minute scars that came from almost 40 years as a soldier. His grizzled beard was still secured with a leather strip, as it always had been. Cold steel-blue eyes looked to her with both jovial amusement and a knowing old wisdom. He looked away and placed a hand on her knee, patting it softly.

“How you been, old girl? Been a long time since Solitude.” His gruff voice just barely managing a softer tone.

“Oh, hold on the idiotic pleasantries!” She snapped, worked up by the whole situation. His hand jerked away in surprise.

What was she supposed to tell Avrusa? _How_ was she supposed to tell Avrusa? She’d be worried sick by the end of the day and a courier wouldn’t get to her until tomorrow, even if she sent one right away. Not to mention, the stress of Brynjolf’s antics had only just left her, only to be met by a new reason to feel the same way.

She turned to face the old Nord, ready for confrontation, but was fronted with an expression that was rare to see on Galmar. One of genuine hurt. She thought it was, anyway. It was only _vaguely_ different to his regular tight jaw and furrowed brow, with marginally wider eyes, raised eyebrows and the _slightest_ tug on the corners of his mouth. Only vaguely different, but different nonetheless.

“Apologies… I simply- What am I supposed to do about Avrusa and the farm now?”

“Farm?” He asked, as she realised he genuinely had no idea what she had been up to since the end of the civil war.

“Yes, farm. I’m nowt but finished with politics, Galmar. That is why I ignored Jarl Ulfric for so long. After 5 letters it just became a joke, some kind of game. How was I supposed to take them seriously? I work on Sarethi Farm these days. No more dragons, no more fighting, no more wars and no more Ulfric.”

She pulled the torn letter out of her hip bag, remembering that she never did throw it away, and thrust it into his chest. Galmar squinted at the small script on the tattered paper and snorted to himself.

“ _And Galmar”_ he muttered “Never did read this one…”

“I don’t desire to have anything to do with anything, anymore. Alduin is gone, the war has ended. Skyrim has very little use for me now, Dragonborn or not, so I quite simply want a quite simple life. Why is it so difficult for others to respect that?” She spat out with a bitterness for the events of yesterday,

“I respect that, girl. I hear you.” His firm hand returned to her knee along with a sharp exhale “Ulfric has something to discuss with you. Whatever you may say now, you wouldn’t have sworn yourself to the Stormcloaks in front of me if you didn’t give a damn about us. I saw the determination those eyes of yours, Dragonborn.”

“Well, what is so confidential that he just couldn’t come to _me_ to discuss it? Instead of sending his lackey to kidnap me?”

“I don’t know. Blond boy has been sulking like a child for days now and has just been reading papers in his quarters, not really talking to anyone. Always with a face like someone just spanked _his_ arse.”

Laughing, she responded with “What I wouldn’t give to see you address the future High King with a name such as ‘blond boy’, Stone-Fist”

“I would just as soon climb a mountain with my teeth, Stormblade!”

“I’m sure you would, too!”

 

The tension between them began to ease at that. _____ relaxed, letting her body sink into her seat. The ride by carriage was bumpy, as always, and a long one at that. She expected that it would be sunset, if not later by the time they made it to Windhelm.

Windhelm… Her last memories of the city nearly a year old now. It's big grey walls, big grey sky and icy temperatures were set in her future whether she liked it or not. The cotton dress that draped over her body was hardly going to warm her from the unforgiving bite of frost. She had left her cowl, gloves and all her other equipment back in Riften, through no fault of her own.

“You see, my biggest concern is not just that this garb isn’t suited to presenting myself to the High King - but that _this_ will barely protect me from the mildest frosts…” She said, picking at the thin threads of her skirts. Galmar looked to her plain green dress (namely to her bosom) and raised his eyebrows.

“I hardly think there's a whole lot I can do to help. Although I'm sure there are things I can do to ward off the cold for the journey…” He smirked and quickly began running his hand up her leg and under her skirts. _____ grabbed his wrist and awkwardly unsheathed her dagger, haphazardly holding it to his fingers.

“Unless you truly do want to be one hand lighter, may I politely suggest that you remove it from my body before I do it myself.”

“Oh- come on! It's only a bit of fun, Soldier.” He snorted, reluctantly taking his hand back and batting her blade to the floor or the carriage. “You know, technically I give _you_ the orders so-”

“Don't start.” She interrupted, unable to suppress a grin as the man laughed once more. “I see you more as an uncle figure - a dirty old one, at that - but I’d very much prefer to keep it that way.”

“Really?” His thoughts moved away from reality for a brief instant.

 

Snow began to fall on them, sending harsh shivers through the Nord girl’s skeleton.

“Here.” He said, untying and removing his bear pelt headdress and dumping it into her lap. It was then that _____ realised she had never seen Galmar without his headdress. He had a surprisingly full head of thick grey hair, roughly cropped to just touch on his shoulders, falling from a centre part. He pushed it back from his face, behind his ears.

Stiffening uncomfortably under her persistent gaze, he muttered:

“Yes, the old man has hair…”

She hummed tunelessly, turning her attention back to wrapping herself in the warm fur that offered a much appreciated barrier against the bitter winds that were sweeping in. _____ couldn't resist stealing one more glance at Galmar’s profile as Windhelm began to appear on the darkening horizon. She had to give him some credit, as a man well into his 60’s, he could still put a lot of young men to shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Spoilers!)  
> \- This is an extremely self-indulgent chapter ngl..... I love me some Friendly Dad Galmar.
> 
> \- I hope I didn't make him come across as too soft? I tried to strike a balance between his usual stoic personality, and a more jokey-friendly one that might come with being close to him.
> 
> \- Also, I know there isn't any in-game evidence to suggest he likes messing with women at all, but for some reason I've always just interpreted his character like that. Not in a predatory malicious way, but more just an old soldier who likes pretty girls and making jokes kinda way. (note: I don't condone this irl in 2016!!)
> 
> \- This is the last chapter I had pre-written (I had 4 written that I just had to edit and upload) so it could be a while before chapter 5 is published :(  
> I haven't written anything yet, but I plan to introduce Ulfric soon!


	5. Venison and Ale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As memories of Windhelm are refreshed, the Dovahkiin meets with Jarl Ulfric for the first time in months, not sure what to expect of this encounter.
> 
> [Major warnings for non-con elements!! Still SFW, but please keep this in mind].

Windhelm loomed before her like a building storm, ready to strike her earthward. The reality of the situation was only just setting in, weighing down her heart and causing all the colour to rush from her face.  
The grey bricks of the bridge looked a menacing black in the nighttime darkness. A glorious green and purple aurora shimmered and danced overhead, as if graceful ladies were moving across the sky. Stretching above the city walls was the Palace of the Kings, it’s windows randomly lit with soft glowing candlelight. _____ could practically hear the rich, deep tones of Jarl Ulfric’s voice echoing throughout its halls already.

 

The carriage driver drew his steed to a halt, calling for his passengers to exit and waking Galmar up with a start. He grumbled, gripping the sides of the wooden cart with knuckles turning white, as he dragged himself down onto solid ground. She followed him, taking his hand to balance herself at the final jump.

“I suppose we’ve arrived…” She muttered absentmindedly. Looking to the bridge leading to the city gates, she pulled the borrowed furs tighter. It seemed longer than it ever had before. Galmar issued a mild slap to her back and began walking across.

_____ was hesitant, lingering in the same spot beside the stable while she watched him march the uneven stones. The elf who ran the stable, Ulundil, was just beginning to pack up for the night. He looked to her and nodded with a friendly smile. The girl could only hope he might have a horse saddled if she had to make a swift escape… She reluctantly followed Galmar.

As they approached the gates, the guards on duty stood to attention, tensing every muscle in their body at the sight of that bear pelt headdress.

“Stand down, men, it’s not any pompous ‘official’ business today.” He grumbled, putting an arm out to push open the gate. The guards yelled in protest and half drew their swords.

“Sir, we’ll take orders from… From the Officer, Sir!” One of them barked out, still slightly uncertain. He looked the girl up and down, taking in her appearance. The look of a tattered linen dress could hardly appear official, but he ignored it nonetheless.

“What, are you stupid, man?!” Galmar roared, face reddening even in the dark “That’s a lady in _my_ armor. Can a man be that dense in the head!?”

The guards slowly sheathed their weapons and sheepishly looked away without comment. The Stormcloak Officer let out a sharp breath and shoved the gate open with some notable force. She accompanied him in silence.

 

Candlehearth Hall sat to greet her as it always had. Admittedly, there was something comforting to a Nord about the thought of a warm building, filled with mead and drunkenly-chanted songs. That was not where she was heading, though. No, she carried on past the tavern and up the steps towards the palace.  
Its immense doors looked like shrouded giants in the dim light and its stacked towers stretched well into the sky. The doors opened into the great hall, its feast table still lined with the remnants of that evening's meal. The smell of rich braised venison sent little knives into her stomach, reminding her of how long it had been since she had last eaten.  
Yet, hunger pains quickly subsided at the sight of the throne, as Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was settled upon it.

“Galmar…” He started, trailing off as he caught sight of the woman. His voice was deep and strong, reverberating through the room.

She took careful steps towards him, pulling the furs off of her head and handing them back to the Officer at her side, letting her hand linger against his elbow.

Ulfric’s face was expressionless. His gaze was a similar cold blue to Galmar’s, but there was a depth to it, a mystery to be discovered. Every little wrinkle of his was made to seem deeper by the candlelight. The darkness around his eyes looked almost skeletal from a distance. Whatever had happened since Solitude had taken it’s toll on the man, yet he still looked handsome as ever.

He flicked his golden braids behind his ears and rose from his seat in one swift motion, taking the four steps down as if they were two.

He walked towards them both and Galmar shrugged _____ off his arm, reminding her to act appropriately. She began a clumsy curtsy but Ulfric held a hand up to dismiss the gesture.

“Not needed. Far… Far from it. It’s been a long time, _____.”

“Hasn’t it just, King Ulfric.” She avoided his searching gaze.

“Not King. Not just yet, but thank you.”

An awkward silence clung to the air around them. They both had so much to say, so much to ask, but neither of them knew if now was the right time. A guard’s idle shuffling pierced through the room like it was five times as loud.

“Come. I’m sure there is much to discuss. I’ll find you a bed for the night.” He spoke slowly. Perhaps with hesitation, or perhaps with… intoxication?

 

Being sure to take a lump of leftover bread to sooth her angry stomach, she followed him through the tight corridors, a maze in the middle of a palace. Sconces lined the wall every few steps, their heat radiating as they passed. The grey cobbles beneath her were worn smooth from the centuries of use, so much so that there was a visible dip in the middle of the path and especially on the stairs.

It wasn’t until she was inside that she realised this was _his_ room. Galmar hadn’t followed, either. It was just the two of them.

“Excuse me, I-”

“Don’t.” He stopped her. “You’re not sleeping in here tonight, do not worry. This is the only place that guards won’t patrol, if asked. There is… There is simply too much to tell you, _____.”

“I’m here to listen, my Jarl. You were always better with words than I.”

He dragged two chairs from his desk to the hearth and they sat down together. Ulfric topped up his already part-filled mug with a fresh bottle of ale, and offered the rest of the bottle to the girl. She gladly accepted.

“Please, just call me Ulfric. No need for any formalities.” He began with a sigh. His heavy lidded eyes looked to hers with a certain dullness. He seemed distant; talking with a monotone, gravelly voice - like he hadn’t spoken properly for days.  
“So much has happened, I can hardly find a place to begin. Since Solutide, our victory… The fight never ends, you know. The fight for Skyrim never ends…” He traced the edge of his cup, looking into the fire as if searching for the right words.  
“The Thalmor have, naturally, caught wind of our success. It’s thrown them, to some degree. Don’t think they ever expected the stupid little nords to actually pull it off, ha!”

He took a long swig of his drink at that, despite seeming drunk already.  
“They’ve sent more scouters and spies, I’m sure of it, _____. Elves without any legitimate claims to identity have been appearing in my cities, sniffing around in unusual places, the bastards. As well, the Thalmor Embassy has gone into lockdown. It’s attack-on-sight for anyone who gets near that place now, making it near _impossible_ to launch our own attack, which is vital in quelling the threat.  
On top of all this, the Empire is pushing up from Cyrodiil. Not with armies and swords, but with diplomats, officials and bankers. Ponces from the Imperial City trying to buy back Skyrim, like she’s just a raggedy map to be bargained for and passed around. Those fucking milkdrinkers, still sucking at their mother's teats, I see. Or perhaps imperial cock?”

“Ulfric!” She interjected, surprised at his colourful language. “A lack of formalities is one thing, but vulgarity is another.”

“Yes, well.” He sighed once more, rolling his eyes and gulping his ale. “I’ve been so caught up in everything, _____. Sleepless nights and sleepless days, for weeks upon weeks upon weeks. No rest, only sitting over an ever increasing spread of letters, books and battle plans. You can’t imagine how I feel…  
The weight of those beautiful mountains sits on my shoulders. Don’t misunderstand, I can and will be Skyrim’s King. I’ll be damned if I can’t. But all _this_ surely dampens a man’s spirit, no? This is hardly a quality of, of… of life.”

His speech had begun to slur. She could only wonder how many similar bottles he had gotten through this same evening while no doubt waiting for her. She picked at the lump of bread in her lap, dabbing little morsels into her mouth and taking a sip of her own drink.

“I don’t know what to say, Ulfric. I did all I could for the Stormcloak cause when the war was still rearing it’s ugly face. Why did you demand I come back?”

“I hardly demanded...”

“Thirteen damn letters and being forcibly ‘escorted’ to Windhelm?”

A genuine smile cracked his mask of solemnity, and he laughed out, “What can I say? The man takes his work seriously!”  
The Jarl sunk back into his seat, some of the tension leaving his body. He did not wear his usual garb, with all it’s fur trimmings and leather under-armor, but instead some more casual, maroon raiment. A shirt embroidered with silk threads, woolen trousers and a quilted coat to cover it all. He methodically unbuttoned his collar (along with a few extra buttons) and opened his legs slightly, sticking one out to warm by the fire. He was being cocky.

The woman maintained eye contact and rephrased her question.

“So, why did you want me back here?”

“Hmm? Oh, you know how men are, girl. It’s all war and politics and fighting with men. I needed a woman in my life again, make of that what you will. One that _doesn’t_ wield a warhammer and drink faster than three men combined...”

“That still doesn’t answer my question. Why me specifically? What do you want of me?”

“Oh, come on! Get with the picture. You crawled your way up from unblooded to third-in-command Stormblade. You fought alongside my best men and were a key asset in winning this war. It’s fair to say that there are not many women in my life like that.”

“And what do you want of me?”

Ulfric scoffed and said, “You’re trying my patience now.”

He leaned towards her and placed a hefty boot over her slight foot, pressing down.

“You are to do your _duties_ as a _woman_.”

While tense, she stood her ground and did not falter. The lady spoke in a low, serious tone - remembering his state of inebriation.  
“So you want me to cook and clean for you? You want me to sew up your little ripped garments? Make your beds and sweep the floors? You want to take me in as some weak-willed _whore_?”

 

It was a standoff. They stared at each other, both waiting for the other to backtrack on their remarks. His eyes were filled with building anger, her’s with a defiant and defensive gaze. The man searched her face, frustrated and looking for a crack in the brick wall. _He_ was a Jarl. She was just another soldier.

“Now… Now you listen to me.” He raised his voice through the silence, body still unmoving. “If I say you are to do your duties as a woman, that is an order, do you understand?”

Ulfric suddenly stood up, drink sloshing over the sides of his mug and making the woman flinch.

“You were never one to question authority; why do you start now? You are Stormblade, this is true, but you are still _just_ a Stormblade. When I give you an order, that is final. You will do and say what I tell you to do and say, damn it”

His voice had built to a roar, it’s echo still bouncing around the large room.

_____ knew not to push him. Not just because of his threats, but because she had never tried before. She did not know this man. This man driven mad from work and fueled by alcohol. Stillness had fallen on the room for a second time. His frame loomed over hers, blocking out some of the light from the fire. Even in darkness, he had a mad look about him.

“What shall you have me do, _Jarl_ Ulfric.” She said it more as a statement than a question, in fear of what the answer would actually be.

 

The piercing scrape of metal against stone screeched out. He had thrown his cup, ale and all, across the room; little drips sissling in the coals beside them.

He grabbed her.

Pulling her up from her seat, clamping down on her with hands that had the strength of two bears, he brought her body to his. A cold hand grasped the back of her neck, forcing the head up to his own. The man pressed his lips against hers. She protested, at first, trying to move her head away, mumbling and wriggling. Yet, he was too strong.  
His lips were firm and commanding, leading in every way. They were warm and unexpectedly soft for a man of his appearance. His mouth tasted faintly of venison, but prominently of ale, as he forced his tongue into hers and he did not resist in letting moans and grunts vibrate from his throat.

As quickly as it had begun, he released her, virtually throwing her to her knees.

“GET OUT.” He boomed.

The girl scrambled up and raced towards the door, but not before Ulfric - in his blind rage - kicked his tin mug across the room. It hit the wall with a deafening bang and landed to clatter by her feet, it’s once circular lip now bent to a sausage shape.

She flung herself out of the room, raced through the corridors and collapsed into a panicked heap on the floor of the throne room.

Once again, all was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- SORRY this took so long! I've been caught up with IRL things and this took about 3 re-writes to get to something I deemed publishable.  
> \- Ulfric's dialogue was challenging and his wikia page is actually one of my current most-visited sites XD.  
> \- I don't actually know if the Stormblade title that the Dragonborn can get in-game equates to being third-in-command?? It's sort of implied but idk.
> 
> Finally, I hope the wait was worth it?! I put a lot of effort into this chapter, even if it still does have some awkward pacing. Feedback/constructive criticism is appreciated, as always :-)


	6. Grey Solemnity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorleif, the Jarl's steward, shares some insight into the unusual situation the Nord girl is in. Ulfric comes to his senses by morning and offers an explanation.  
> (Please take the time to read the chapter notes if you are following this series and enjoy it! When you've finished the chapter, of course ;-) There is an important point at the bottom.)

She looked up to the high ceiling. There were windows in every cardinal direction and she guessed it must have been not long past midnight, judging by the moon. Every flame had reduced to a hazy ember, making the room seem small and close. Her breath still wheezed in and out and in and out, quickly and unsteadily.

“Madam?”

A light appeared in the doorway opposite, that lead to the kitchen. It was Jorleif, the Jarl’s steward, holding a bronze candelabrum, it’s bright, golden flame illuminating his weathered face.

“M’lady, is everything ok?!” He asked, hurrying to _____’s side as she still knelt on the hard floor. “Great Gods, you’re breathing heavier than a horse at plow!”

“It’s- I’m fine, Jorlief. Ulfric had… Ulfric had lost his temper in our negotiations, through no fault of his own… Naturally.”  
“Ah.” He began, taking her hand to his palm to help her up. “Yes, m’lady. Such a thing is commonplace, if I am speaking truthfully. The man has been pushed to his limits, it seems. A great man he is, an honour to serve, but it would be beyond me to say that he hasn’t started spouting drivel and crazy talk as of late. A few… How do I say, ‘aggressive outbursts’ too?”

“After our exchange, I don’t think you need to tell _me.”_

He exhaled a polite laugh, but there was a sort of solemnity to it. He briefly placed a hand to her shoulder to direct her to the door he had come from. Walking through the quiet hall, her stomach made noises of protest while she also thought of how chilly it was in the Palace. The kitchen still smelled of savory foods - a half dozen dinner rolls sat on a worktop, near a large cauldron with a few servings of that venison sitting at the bottom. The charcoals beneath it still glowed and breathed out little orange flakes of ember every so often.  
The woman crossed the room to warm herself by it, and Jorleif took it as a hint to her hunger.

“Please, do help yourself. All the staff have already had their share and it would only go to the dogs.”

While she wasn’t looking for handouts, she gladly accepted this time.

“So please, Jorleif, can _you_ enlighten me as to why I was brought here? Ulfric- _Jarl_ Ulfric, is clearly in no state to explain anything coherently.” She mumbled through a mouthful of food. “He mentioned, and I quote, ‘he needed a woman in his life again’ and started talking of my role in the war. That’s the extent of my knowledge, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mean to belittle you, but do remember that I’m no official. The man trusts me and respects my opinion, but he doesn’t confide much in me… However, I just might have some ideas for you.”

“Do go on.”

“For starters, this breakdown - or whatever you might call it - he does take responsibility for his work, but he (Gods Bless him) does favor pinning his ‘emotional turmoil’ on those around him. Perhaps he’s looking for a fresh face to bring something new to the plate? When he says he needs a woman in his life… Well, I’m sure you can guess what that means, if you'll excuse me from explaining. Could be wrong though; perhaps he was just alluding to your military experience. He spoke about you a lot, _____, you know? Behind your back, but not all mean or anything. He would never admit it, but he might just have a soft spot for you. I don’t know whether it was for your talents in war or just… Just because he is a man.”

“Really? Oh Stendarr above, Jorleif!”

“Oh, yes, yes. Never commented on you in a lovey-kinda-way, possibly didn’t trust me for that, truth be told. I might just be proving him right!” He said with a laugh “But after any kind of meeting, you couldn’t stop him for how he would talk about what you said and what you did and what your ideas were…”

“Ulfric, this is. Ulfric Stormcloak, no?”

Jorleif chortled tunefully. He was always so quiet when he was standing at Ulfric’s side. It was surreal to hear him talk this much, and with such engaging, textured talk at that.

“You are not mistaken, m’lady! On a more serious note, I know nothing of his future plans beyond the superficial details, like what soldiers and units are going where, but he may also have plans involving you. However much you did on the battlefield, Jarl Ulfric is more than aware of your capabilities behind the scenes. It’s rumored that you once snuck into the Thalmor Embassy? Did he mention anything to do with that?”

“Briefly, yes. Well, he mentioned the Thalmor Embassy and told of how their security is even tighter now.”

“Yes, I overheard him talking with Officer Yrsarald - or maybe it was Galmar? - about that. I think he’s hoping you might just do it again. Though, for reasons that are beyond me.”

“What?! I-”

“JORLEIF!” A slurred shout came from the throne room, along with a bang, the scrape of wood against stone and a rather unmasculine giggle. All of which drew their attention away from the topic at hand.

 

A stumbling, red nosed Ulfric slumped against the doorway, pointing an accusing finger at his poor steward. He looked like he was about to go on some sort of muddled rant, but stopped when he noticed _____’s presence. She couldn’t help but stiffen at his appearance, especially after the events of just 30 minutes prior, yet at the same time it was a sad sight to see the future High King of Skyrim reduced to some sort of drunken tavern rat, slurring and staggering all the while. How had he not yet collapsed?

“Jor-Jorleif… What… With-?”

“I was offering her a meal and guiding her to her chambers for the night, Sir.” He replied, clearly well versed in the appropriate behaviour for this situation.

“Oh, oh Miss _____…” He stomped his way through the kitchen, gripping surfaces to support himself and knocking everything upon them to the floor in doing so, the loud clattering only disorientating him further. He virtually threw himself over her, leaving the girl to try and support the best part of his body weight. He grabbed her cheek with his haphazard, sizable hands and pressed the side of her face to his forehead, his lips grazing against her as he spoke.

“Oh please… I’m angry- no, drunk- no... Please...” He could barely string a sentence together and ended it with a misplaced fit of laughter. While it was some sort of booze-induced facade, it was still hard not to feel some sympathy for him now. If not simply for the fact that he had gotten himself into this state.

Jorleif swooped in and lifted him from her, easing the strain in her arms, and tried to negotiate with him and get him to retire to the Jarl’s Quarters. He made eye contact with her over the Jarl’s shoulder and glanced towards the dungeon, her cue to get out while she could.

 

She slipped out of the kitchen and tip-toed into the barracks. The dorm was full of off-duty guards, all of whom were fast asleep in their beds. Two soldiers sat by the entrance at a small table littered with playing cards, lit by a single candle. One aggressively gestured for her to come closer.

“What are you doing back here, citizen?!” He spoke with as much assertiveness as one could muster in a quiet tone.

“I’m _____, invited here by Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. I- Well, I suppose I’m looking for a place to retire for the night.”

“Pardon? Is your place not in the Jarl’s Quarters, citizen?”

Some stirring from one or two of the sleeping guards made them pause. Both became very aware of their own voices and hushed them accordingly.

“There have been some complications, Soldier, and you’d do well to address me as Stormblade. Can you spare a bed or not?”

“Stormblade?! You must be pulling my leg! I-”

“Oh, let the woman sleep, Brannal!” An irritated voice piped up from across the room. “There’s a bed opposite.”

The soldier, suddenly  pink with embarrassment, huffed and dismissed himself.

 

The woman made her way to the vacant bunk and covered herself with the furs, but she did not find it within her thoughts to sleep. She lay awake in the dark, listening only to the heavy breathing of sleeping guards and the soft shuffling of Brannal and his friend playing cards.  
Everything Jorleif had said played over and over again in her head. What did he mean Ulfric had a “soft spot” for her? What did he _mean_ she would have to sneak _back_ into the Embassy? Elenwen had, naturally, stopped hosting any kind of social events after the Stormcloak victory, presumably for fear of spies. If it really is attack on sight, there would be little to no chance of getting in by any other means - the nord thought. Not to mention, did Ulfric even know what he needed from inside? Does he know of any specific documents and, more importantly, if they would even be hidden in the Embassy?

She tensed up.

Documents, she thought. The Thalmor dossiers… She never did bring those to him. Didn’t have the heart. To know he was played by the Thalmor could be the last straw, yet it could also bring vital information on what to do next...

 

Morning awoke suddenly, with a soldier marching through the dorm yelling and banging for the sleeping guards to rise. They had to return to their posts and rotate with the guards coming off duty for the day.

_____, must have slept for a short while. She woke in a sleepy haze and pulled herself from under the covers. As she made her way out of the room behind the crowd, the man waiting for her bunk did a double take. It was easy to forget that she was still dressed as a common farming woman.

Jorlief nodded to her as she entered the throne room. Him, the two Officers and a rather grey, hungover looking Ulfric were all sat at the feast table picking at cheeses, fruit and sweet pastries.

“Morning, Ma’am”. Officer Yrsarald croaked. Perhaps he had been on the ale last night as well.

“Good morning, Men. If you would excuse me, might I take 5 minutes outside to wake myself?”

“Of course, Ma’am.” He replied, despite having no authority to dismiss her. Galmar was quiet. When she looked to the Jarl, he avoided her gaze and said nothing. She nodded to the table awkwardly and moved across the hall to exit.

Stepping into the small stone courtyard, it looked to be another clear day, though it was misty at current. It was cold, very cold, but when was it not. The sky was a pale, mountain flower blue and the few wisps of cloud glowed a pale orange to match. The sun was just finishing its rise, settling into the sky for a day of hard work. A few market traders passed by the entrance to the courtyard on their way to their stalls, some peering in and shouting across their greetings to her and the guard on duty. The crisp morning air filled her lungs and revitalised her spirit, giving her the confidence to return to the throne room.

 

Once inside, she sat at the table, beside Officer Yrsarald and they all ate in total silence. It was not a comfortable silence, at that. The two Officers soon after finished and dismissed themselves, followed quickly by Jorleif.

Had I missed something? - She thought.

“_____.” Ulfric began, rising to move opposite her, the sound of his deep voice making her jump.

“My Jarl.” She said, giving him a nod.

“_____, I must explain myself for last night, I… I knew of your upcoming arrival, of course, and one drink turned into many - need I say more? Whatever I might have said-”

“Do you remember what you said to me? What you did?” She found it within herself to interrupt him. A Jarl, at that. He stopped in a surprised silence, mouth still slightly ajar and eyebrows raised. His forehead was embellished with little lines and wrinkles, as if each one told the tales of his past. Ulfric Stormcloak was a man in his 50’s, beaten and battered by the horrors of war and tragedy, but his face still held the echos of a past youth. His face did not sag or crumble in the years, but rather stood strong and commanding - comfortable in it’s age. There was always a sort of glint in his eyes, a sparkle that held emotion, tenderness and passion - however deep it was buried under layers of grey solemnity.

He sighed and reluctantly replied “No. No, I don’t, and it brings me a lot of shame, _____, do know that. Whatever I might have said or done, _I want to set the record straight._ I brought you here primarily for political reasons, an impartial opinion, if you will. However I would be a fool to pretend that is my only reason. We can discuss it in depth shortly, in private, but that is the gist of it. Please, do enjoy the food and meet me in the war room at the sun's peak.”

“Yes, my Jarl.”

With that, he rose from his seat and left for the war room himself, leaving _____ to contemplate what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO HI yes sorry this took an actual eternity to publish!! I've been busy with real life stuff, especially over Christmas, and tbh I've been really sad so writing wasn't on my agenda for a while. But. I'M BACK & HAPPIER NOW!  
> \- I know nothing major happens in this chapter but I'm a fan of build up can you tell :3c. All the stuff Jorleif says is important, as well as what Ulfric says at the end.  
> \- There was a little sprinkling of Ulfric body contact tho so I hope that makes up for it. i bet his breath is warm on ur cheek & his hands are nice.  
> \- I went back and CHANGED Galmar's age in Chapter 4. I stated he was in his 50's but I thought about it and read his Wiki page over and over and I'm pretty sure he's in his 60's, plus that would make sense if Ulfric is in his 50's. There is a discussion about Ulfric's age on his elderscrolls.wikia page, if you're curious.
> 
> **- On that topic, I've been reading TES wiki's like crazy while I was writing this chapter. I'm virtually an expert on Ulfric and the Great War now lmao. I was thinking about how far I'm going to take this, considering this is just a self-insert Ulfric x Reader fanfic... I really don't have any idea what kind of ending I'm going to go for or how long it'll be atm.  
> But I've been thinking of wrapping this up in the next few chapters somehow (stay with me) and CONTINUING the story, with a named character, as part of a separate work. I got very enthusiastic about how I could tie the canon lore of Skyrim into this, but I don't know how appropriate that would be for a self-insert shipping fic haha. I might also rework some of the earlier (awkward) chapters too, if I go ahead with that.  
> I will still try my best to end this in a satisfying way, of course, even if that means it ends up longer than I intended! So don't worry!! Also, I've finally decided there will be an explicit scene or two [scattered applause]. I'm going to change the rating to explicit when those chapters are published ;o) wink wonk
> 
> Given that I started this as a silly self-indulgent project, and I've never published fanfictions before, I've been really touched by the amount of kudos and hits this has been getting! Thank you so much for all your support!


	7. More than his Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulfric Stormcloak has called the nord girl in for a... political meeting, or so it would seem. Words exchanged can not be taken back.

As much as she wanted to deny it, the sun was high in the sky. After the morning's conversation, she had tried to distract herself with the hustle and bustle of the marketplace - as well as arguing with Rolff Stone-Fist over what he called the “grey skin spies” -  but what was imminent was undeniable. Entering the Palace of the Kings again was a welcome relief from the cold, but the anxiety disturbing her stomach made it hard to appreciate. The war room’s door was left ajar, probably as an invitation to herself, but the sight did make her feel sick. Something about talking to him just made her nervous alone, but his vagueness didn’t help the matter.  
She slowly pushed open the heavy metal door, making disjointed squeaks, and entered the room with light feet. Ulfric was sitting with his head in at least 5 different books spread on top of a map, an ink covered quill in his hand, mindlessly brushing it’s soft feather against his cheek as he read. He must have known she was there, with that loud old door, but he didn’t look up. 

“My Jarl.” She stated, bowing her head to him.

“Mmm.” He hummed and nodded to the chair on the side of the table next to him. _____ stepped across the room after closing the door and perched on the edge of the seat, legs together and hands clasped in her lap. She waited for him to say something, but he continued to stare at the words on the page, pale blue circles moving back and forth with the subtlest of movements. His eyes were somewhat glazed over and it was clear that he wasn’t reading at all, just tracing the words as he thought about something else.  The girl cleared her throat hesitantly, but it seemed to do the trick. Ulfric slowly shut the book and laid down the quill before turning to her.

“_____.” He began, scanning her face. “I suppose we should talk… business…” Perhaps he was unsettled too.

“I am here to listen.”

The Jarl sat up straight and laid his hands on the table with a thud, shifting slightly in his seat. He must have been wearing some kind of cologne or perfume, as the air carried hints of juniper berries and lavender as he moved - a spicy but sweet smell. There was a jarring silence before he started.

“Well… Where do I begin? I asked to see you again to discuss matters regarding Skyrim’s independence. We have been planning our next moves, but your opinion is always appreciated.”

“I see... I will help in any way I can, but you know better than anyone that I’m not... Well versed in the subject.” 

“It matters not.” He said with a small smile. “Your input is appreciated all the same. I have some documents, if you don’t mind, for you to read up on before we can really get into anything. It would take me longer to find the words to tell you, than it would to read them. You can read, no?”

“Of course?”

“Yes, of course…” Ulfric slumped a little and ran his hand through his hair. “You know, there are many in Windhelm who can not.” There was a pause. “Yes, well, you see… Those books,” He gestured towards the other end of the table, a stack of 3 small leather bound books. “Those are for you. The one on the top is the most important, really. I’ve scribbled that myself, if you’ll pardon my writing. I suppose I would describe it as our ‘short term plans’ to make Skyrim fully independent - ideas and propositions for our relationship with the Empire and Cyrodiil; concerning laws and what have you…”

“That’s fine, yes, I can read those in the next day or two, if you would like to organise another meeting for then.” She started to rise from her seat, relieved that it was looking like a short encounter. The atmosphere was so tense and awkward she could hardly bare it.

“_____.” His harsh tone made her pause and, as if by instinct, she knew to sit back down again. He flopped against the back of his chair and pushed it away from the table, it’s wooden legs scraping against the floor. The man took a long, loud breath; rolling his shoulders back and forth in a stretch. He was wearing his armor today, the fur lapels of his coat rustling with the movement. He leant forward, with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of his mouth, and looked her dead in the eyes.

 

“Thank Talos that’s out of the way.” The words were muffled through his fingers, so he placed his chin atop his hands. “We both know I didn’t drag you all the way here to just get an opinion, girl. That would be a fool's game. Let’s throw formalities out the window for a few minutes and for Gods’ sake, call me Ulfric! Instead of all that ‘my jarl’, ‘my king’  nonsense.” He said, waving a hand in the air dismissively “I’d expect that from a citizen, yes, but not someone I’ve worked with closely since the beginning of the civil war!  Look, I can’t remember even half of what I said last night; although Jorleif filled me in on  _ some  _ of the grizzly details…I want to start again, with a clean slate, and begin by saying I’m sorry for whatever I might have done or said last night.” He paused to allow her to interject.

“Drink brings the truth out of a man, Ulfric, you should remember that. I agree it would be better to move on with a clean slate, though.”

“Thank you, _____.”

“So what is it you really want to discuss?”

He held her gaze but didn’t say anything, his eyes again glazing over in thought. Ulfric looked to the ground, running a hand over his mouth and beard, but quickly looked up again.

“What do you really think of me?”

“Pardon?” She asked in bewilderment.

“What is our relationship, in your eyes?”

“Ulfric, have you been day-drinking?”

He laughed but persisted nonetheless. “I’m trying to be serious here. What do you make of me, of us, of all this?”

“I…” She was at a loss for words. For the first time since her arrival, there was a kind look to him. Not the sort that she had to dig through his blank expressions and cold eyes to find, but the sort that was outwardly and warmly displayed on his face. It made her almost uncomfortable. “I?” She still could not find the words.

“I don’t think I can phrase it any differently. I will not scorn you for whatever you might say and this certainly isn’t official business. I am just curious.”

“I suppose… I suppose I am under the impression that ours is a working relationship. Superior and subordinate, General and Stormblade.” Despite not actually knowing the name of his military rank, she stood by what she said, hoping confidence would mask any errors.  _ What was it?  _ \- she thought -  _ Snow-Hammer, Stormblade, then... Officer? But didn’t Galmar say he was actually a Stormblade, but everyone just calls him an Officer? Oh Gods. _

“Is that so…” He sat back a bit, his face a little more serious than before, and pulled her away from her thoughts of military ranks.

“Well, I feel it isn’t  _ strictly  _ a working relationship. We still drink together and talk as kinsman, of course. I would… I would call you a friend, if it were my place to do so.”    
  
The man didn’t give an answer but pressed on. “That is our relationship. But what do think of me, as a person?” He kept digging, deeper and deeper. He was trying to get something out of the girl, but neither of them could really pinpoint what.

“Ulfric…” She hoped he would say something, but he patiently awaited an answer.  _ Damn him.  _ “I feel whatever I say has the potential to tarnish whatever our relationship is, but I can see I’ve not been left much choice. Ulfric, you are the most honourable man I have met. Why else would I fight for you with such valor? There is not a Nord in Skyrim that-”

He scoffed and threw his hands up, looking to one side with disdain. “None of that. You’re still trying to use army-talk, woman, and play into the idea that I only want to hear pleasantries about myself as a leader. I don’t care, If I’m being blunt. What do you think of me,  _ as a person?” _

“Ulfric, I think you are very handsome.” She blurted it out like a child speaking their mind, before she could stop herself. They were both quiet.  “I mean, I-”

“I believe you are under oath to tell me the truth.” He said in a strangely flat tone, deliberately making it impossible to read him.

“Yes, I have opened my fat bard’s mouth again. That-... Looks are a very superficial thing though, I know, but it would be a lie to say otherwise. All that ‘army talk’ is true as well, you are unmatched in passion and strength. You’re a pleasure to be around, funny and witty and all. I… I think you are a very gentle, caring man at heart, Ulfric. You deserve more more than spending your days trapped in an old brick box with your nose pressed into papers; more than loneliness and politics. You deserve more than your past.”   


It all spilled out so quickly it was impossible to keep any in, like a bucket of water being knocked on it’s side. Definitive, final and irreparable. Ulfric said and did nothing, but seemingly let the truth wash over him. The light from the afternoon sun spilled into the windows; little particles of dust danced in the beams that were lighting up his hair as if it were golden wheat. The fires of the palace kept the room warm, but the sun was warmer on their skin. It felt like an eternity before he sat back in his chair again.

“Well.” He stated.

“Perhaps I should leave,” She interjected before he could continue, face burning hot. “Before I embarrass myself more than I have.”

With that she practically leapt from her seat and bolted towards the door, despite vaguely registering that he was calling her name. The girl thoughts turned only to her chambers. That was, until, a warm hand grabbed at her wrist.

“_____! Soldier, I did not teach you to run from battles - from conflict. Face me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay another chapter! This ones a little shorter and heavily dialogue based, I know, but I'm trying to get things moving and dialogue was the best way to do it!   
> I'm trying to get to the point now, really. My writing style and my intended direction of this fic has changed a lot since I began (at least, I feel it has!) and I am actually considering deleting the first few chapters. Looking back, the one with Brynjolf really serves no purpose to the actual story-line and just feels like filler more than actual plot?
> 
> I'm thinking about deleting the first few chapters and summarising them in a prologue. Alternatively, I could revise this work completely (when I've finished) as a separate piece on AO3 and write a disclaimer at the start of this version that it has been revised? I would love peoples thoughts! :-)
> 
> Also, I found this great forum post about the military ranks of the Stormcloak Army and the Imperial Legion! You can check it out here - http://w11.zetaboards.com/skyrimrpg/topic/7511969/1/


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